A Study In Senses
by Ashtrees
Summary: Sherlock suffers a sensory overload. John helps. (non-slash).


_Author's Note: I have based Sherlock's experience of a sensory overload from Rudy Simone's book Aspergirls. Rudy Simone is on the autism spectrum herself and writes eloquently with warmth, humour and hope about her experiences of being on spectrum. It is a book well worth reading. You can also see clips from her workshops about autism on Youtube. The Superman metaphor also comes from her, but I couldn't think of a better metaphor that describes a sensory overload better._

_I don't have Asperger's myself, but I have been learning about it._

_Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Sherlock characters. _

A Study In Senses

Sherlock knew that he was in for a rough night as soon as he and John arrived at the funfair.

They had come to the funfair at Detective Inspector Lestrade's request. There was a man who worked there, operating the Ferris wheel, and was involved in the murder enquiry Lestrade was leading. He had known the victim and all evidence proved that he had nothing to do with the murder, but Lestrade's instincts were telling him that the man was hiding some guilty secret. Sherlock had upbraided the detective for not having anything any more against the man than just his feelings and having no evidence to back those feelings up, but agreed to see the man at funfair and search for anything Lestrade may have missed.

It was an awful place to be. There were bright, flashing, whirling lights. People screaming and laughing. The stench of hotdogs, burgers, popcorn, donuts, candyfloss, oil, sweat, overheated lights, and vomit all mixed up together into a maelstrom of odours which made Sherlock want to heave himself. And movement. Far too much movement. Lights which moved so fast they streaked across the sky leaving a burning afterimage on Sherlock's eyes. From Sherlock's point of view there had been people milling around rather slowly in comparison to fast moving rides behind them. The contrast made him feel quite dizzy. There was so much to observe and deduce about people. Every single member of the crowd had multiple stories to be read in the clothes they wore, their hairstyle, make-up, the people they were with, their body language, the food they were eating, which rides they were queuing for, the items they were carrying…Sherlock's brain captured it all and the deductions came so quickly they were almost automatic and instinctive, not that Sherlock had any real control over it. But, it was too much too fast and it was being to hurt. If they didn't hurry up it would overwhelm him.

Fortunately, John had spotted the top of the Ferris Wheel and was leading the way through the throng. This time Sherlock was more than happy to follow John's back and as they went he concentrated on controlling his breathing. It would be better if he could stand still but it was an effective technique for reducing anxiety, an emotion he'd rather keep hidden from John.

"There's the man!" John said, loudly above the dim. "Don't worry. We'll be out of here in no time."

Perhaps John had picked up on some of Sherlock's tension after all. Sherlock was impressed. He hadn't said a word about not wanting to be there and yet John had noticed his discomfort. For a man who hadn't even observed that there seventeen steps leading up to their flat, he had an amazing intuition for recognising when people were not feeling well.

Sherlock didn't answer him. Instead he walked up to the Ferris Wheel man and tapped him on the shoulder.

"If you want to ride then you'll have to queue. I don't do any exceptions unless you're a sick kiddie. And you don't look like one," the man said with laugh.

"Do I look like I want a bloody ride?" Sherlock snapped.

John was surprised. Sherlock rarely swore and was rarely so short with people.

"I just want to ask you a few questions about your friend, James Date. John, your shoelace is untied."

Sherlock quickly deduced from the man's necklace and the way he was eyeing up John's behind as he knelt down to tie up his shoelace, that the man was gay and had been having an affair with the victim, who had been married to a woman. The man broke down and confessed that he had felt ashamed of what he had done and hoped that the widow wouldn't find out, not at this difficult time - the sum total of his guilty behaviour. Immoral but not an arrest able offence. In fact, Sherlock felt angry that Lestrade had not unearthed this rather important fact during the investigation.

He felt relieved though that the affair was no more complicated than that. He wanted to leave the funfair as soon as possible. He was starting to feel intensely uncomfortable and was having to fight to hold his temper in place.

John silently lead the way out. Both men knew that the other was aware that something was wrong, but Sherlock was too proud to explain and John wouldn't ask unless he felt he really had to.

When Sherlock fell into bed that night he felt grateful for the cool, quiet, stillness of his bedroom. He felt exhausted. He knew that he was suffering from a sensory overload, his brain maxed out on the sights, sounds, odours, observations and deductions from the funfair. His mind had taken in too much unwanted data and now his brain was locked up as it desperately tried to sort and process the information as quickly as it could.

Certain images from the funfair stuck in his mind: the face of the man as he broke down crying merged with the yellow and blue lights behind him and morphed into the people standing in the queue and then into the rollercoaster and back into people again. They were as clear as though he was watching a film.

The images became even more vivid, moving through his mind so quickly it was like watching the pictures printed onto a deck of cards as a person expertly shuffled them and once the end of the deck was reached the images would start replaying in the exact same order again and again, faster and brighter and shaper each time. Sherlock had no control over his mind's eye during these times. He could do nothing but wait for them to slow down and fade away by themselves.

Sherlock rolled over, feeling the sheets starting to stick to him. He realised that his body was whipping itself up into a fever. But, this wasn't unexpected. It fascinated him to think that his body chose to fight a sensory overload in the same way it would fight a virus. But, it would be over in an hour or two and then he could sleep properly.

He felt slightly envious because he knew that John had seen and heard everything that he had at the funfair. But John was probably still up, relaxing with a book instead of lying sweating in bed as his mind spun faster and faster unable to slow down. A spinning top drifting dangerously close to the edge of the tabletop.

At least he was safe in his room. Right now it was the best place for him.

Mrs. Hudson and John had been surprised when they had first seen how empty and clean he kept his bedroom in comparison to all of his belongings being scattered carelessly around and piling up in the flat. All that was in his bedroom was his bed (obviously), a wardrobe, a mirror and in the far corner a small display cabinet with a few fossils and crystals. On the walls was a portrait of Poe, a judo certificate with his name written in Japanese characters, a photo of Mendeleev the creator of the periodic table hanging beneath a small version of the table. By the door was a larger more colourful version of the Periodic table.

John had seemed peeved when he first realised that Sherlock had chosen to keep the majority of his possessions out in the living area of the flat and requested that Sherlock move some of his stuff into his bedroom. Sherlock had flatly refused. He kept his bedroom almost completely empty with heavy curtains across the window, which promised to block out a hundred percent of outside light, for a reason. If he filled his room up with books and a radio (he knew that John had one in his room) and chemistry equipment his brain would never be able to relax enough for him to sleep.

No, his bedroom was strictly a low-stimulation area and there would be no compromises. It was his mother who had first entrenched this principle into him. As a child he had plenty of other rooms to play with his toys in, but he had still resented his mother for being so adamant that his bedroom would be almost completely devoid of toys and experiments. A few books and a teddy had been allowed. Actually, his mother had allowed him to have whatever he needed to calm down at night, but anything that would keep him awake was forbidden.

As a teenager when he his mood swings were completely out of control he began to crave the solitude of his room where he could hide with the curtains closed whenever he felt that a sensory meltdown was imminent.

Now as an adult the sensory overloads were no longer as intense when he had experienced them as a child. But, they still happened occasionally and usually when he was unprepared for them. It was always best to be prepared. So, wherever he went Sherlock would try to secure a private room for himself, somewhere where he could unwind his mind and hide from people, who usually caused him more pain than any assault on his senses.

His bedroom had become a sanctuary from the outside world and from what his mother used to call "sensory nasties". You could never really predict when one might jump out and bite you.

He even kept ear plugs in the bathroom for rainy days. Literally. He hated wet days. Although, his bedroom was at the back of the house, if it rained the sound of cars hissing past on the wet road grated painfully on his ears. It made his hair stand up on the nape of his neck, although he was hearing someone running their nails down a black board; and this happened every time a car would drive down Baker Street. It was hell.

Maybe he should give up being a detective?

Sherlock groaned, rolling over in his bed. He could still see the face of the Ferris wheel man as he broke down crying.

Some days being a detective wasn't worth all of the discomfort he brought him.

He could go back to studying chemistry, his lifelong obsession. He would enjoy that, and then work in a research laboratory for the rest of his working life. In an academic setting his Asperger's would be more likely to be accepted, even an advantage because of the strong problem-solving skills it had blessed Sherlock with and the hidden love for routine and repetitiveness.

John would snort at that. Maybe love was the wrong word. Sherlock became bored so easily, but at the same time he could thrive under routine if he chose to, focusing on single task for hours on end with stopping for a break or for any kind of refreshment. His current record was ten hours, seven minutes and thirty- two seconds until John had arrived home and insisted that he should stop. He hadn't even noticed the time slip by. Imagine what he could achieve if he was being paid to work in chemistry.

Mycroft would be happy if he did. It would certainly cause him less worry.

Yes, he could choose to tolerate the routine and repetitiveness of the work if it meant that he was allowed to control the environment of the lab - the temperature, the background noise levels, the lighting. Maybe they would even allow him to choose what hours he would work and then he could conduct his research at night with fewer people around to distract him. Then he go home and play his violin, thinking about the next experiment, or even pay a trip to Bart's Morgue to gather samples for his own personal experiments.

He could even become a pathologist and work with Molly in the morgue. That could be fun is some ways. She was never really happy with him taking specimens home but she was always interested to hear about the experiments, jotting down notes as she listened. Sometimes she had her own suggestions or requests for an experiment of her own as part of her Professional Development. They were always interesting ideas, but otherwise she wasn't that fascinating to talk to, always going on about her cats. But, if they spent their time just talking about work then that would be more fun.

Above all it would safe.

Is that what he really wanted?

After he had finished at university people had expected him to go one of two ways.

One: he would be hired by the university itself for research and give the occasional lecture, so that he could spend his life amongst other like-minded eccentrics in the palace of information.

Two: become an ordinary science teacher in an expensive boarding school somewhere out in the country.

Safe and secure occupations.

But, he had defied them all and gone for option Z instead and proclaimed himself a Consulting Detective. Mycroft had looked amused, but had not said a word. Their mother had been encouraging, assuring him that his Asperger's needn't be a barrier to his favoured career as long as he put his mind to it. The university had been horrified. The Career Advisor, his tutor and Learning Mentor had called his mother in a for a little chat about it.

Yes, of course, Sherlock should not allow his disability to hold him back, they had waffled. But, there are so many other careers out there which would suit his natural talents: scientist, actor, teacher, engineer, musician. But, a detective…we don't think that young Sherlock really understands what being a detective involves. He seems to think that he can be like Dupin or Pirot, when it's all about chasing after wayward husband and wives! This is reality remember. And he would constantly be coming into contact with unsavoury characters who might try to take advantage of Sherlock's social naivety. He could be easily tricked. Yes, we are aware that Sherlock is very manipulative himself. But, couldn't Mycroft try talking - no? Fine. At a stretch Sherlock could do very well in the police force. If they paired him with a willing mentor who could steer him around all of the social and political pitfalls which take place within teams and office settings, then we think that - not a chance? Very well, Mrs. Holmes. We have voiced our concerns. Now there is nothing left for else to say, except to wish your son the best of luck for the future.

And that was that. Work was slow in coming at first, of course, and all from suspicious husbands and wives. And for all of his cleverness he been manipulated on one or two occasions because he couldn't always tell if he was being lied to. Not that he would ever admit to anyone now of his mistakes. He had learnt from them and now he was an expert in noticing the slightest twitch or other tell-tale sign of a lie.

But, if being a detective came without any risks or challenges then he would have turned his nose up at the very thought of becoming one. He wanted risks! He wanted challenges and puzzles and adventure! He didn't want to be safe, or pitied or looked after all of his life. It was demeaning to his intelligence. He was Sherlock Holmes, the smartest man in the room.

Right now he was as free as he was ever going to be. True, tonight had not been worth the sensory overload it had given him, but he would give Lestrade a headache himself tomorrow morning.

Sherlock snuggled down deeper under his duvet. His head was feeling clearer now and his fever had finally died down. He was glad that John hadn't come knocking on his door. He didn't want his best friend to see how badly he was affected by a few flashing lights. He didn't want anyone to know. It wasn't always easy to hide it though.

Part of his problem was that as a child he had stubbornly refused to accept the diagnosis of Asperger's Syndrome. But, then there had been so many misdiagnoses, such as ADHD and even bipolar disorder, suggested by an American doctor, that Sherlock knew that he had a right to be sceptical, young as he was. Sometimes he even forgot that he was classed as autistic. Mycroft had always reminded him though: use your strengths and work to improve your weaknesses. You'll become a more efficient detective if you do.

It was sound advice and Sherlock hated him for being right and for keeping an annoyingly close eye on him. Help was always close by whether he wanted it there or not.

Speaking of which…

On the nightstand his mobile beeped. It was a text message from John.

_Are you okay? _it read.

Sherlock quickly sent a message back. _Yes. Why?_

_I'm bored. There's nothing good on the TV. _

_I can't do anything about that, John. _

_And I was wondering if there was anything bothering you? Do you need anything?_

_I'm fine. _

Sherlock hesitated before typing the next part of his message. He could tell John about his Asperger's and then John might understand and actually leave him alone. He could easily predict how John would react. It would be the same reply he had received from every person he had ever told: You have Asperger's? But you look so normal!

But, if he told John that he was on the autism spectrum, John would never treat him in the same way again - he would never stop worrying or fussing about him. Everything that he did, John would put down to his Asperger's.

No, Sherlock could not quite believe that John would be like that. John Watson was different to most people. Better than most people.

And on the other hand, John would find out at some point. Maybe at that point Sherlock was still slightly unwell because he decided that John might as well know. It wasn't a decision he would normally make so lightly.

_I have Asperger's Syndrome_.

Sherlock quickly sent the text before he could change his mind.

John's reply took a good few agonising minutes to appear and when Sherlock's phone beeped, he was already silently mouthing the reply he expected to see.

"But, Sherlock, you act so normal! You far too talented and cleaver to be Aspergic!"

He got a shock when he opened the text. It read:

_Yes, I know. What about it?_

Sherlock felt infuriated. Not only did he feel slightly cheated by John's casual reaction, but somehow it had completely slipped him by that John was aware of his autism and he hadn't even realised it.

_How do you know? How long have you known?_ he demanded.

_Since we first met when you told M.H that her mouth was too small and then went on to deduce my life story. The evidence sort of culminated after that. _

_Why didn't you say anything?_

_I didn't think you knew that you had it. Besides, you're doing well in life. It doesn't seem so important._

_It still affects my life. I can't even go to the supermarket without getting a headache._

_You could wear sunglasses and earplugs?_

_No, John, I couldn't. _

_Fine. Don't feel bad. It's just your Kryptonite._

Sherlock stared at his phone. He had no idea what John was talking about. He knew about Kryptonite and Superman (a useless fact from his childhood which had somehow escaped deletion), but other than that….

_I'm comparing you to Superman_, John's next text explained helpfully. Obviously John had interpreted, quite correctly, Sherlock's silence as confusion.

_I don't wear bright red pants or a cape, John!_

John's next text took a short while in coming. Sherlock rightly guessed that it was a going to be a long message.

_I know. But, you both have super powers and you both have weaknesses which drain you of your powers. I.e. Kryptonite or sensory issues. But to me Kryptonite is harmless and actually looks quite pretty. To you it's poison. Sometimes I don't even realise what Kryptonite looks like until you start reacting to it._

Sherlock didn't reply. He couldn't.

A shorter text from John soon appeared.

_But, your A.S has given you amazing powers of observation and deducation. No one else could do that. You are Asperman. _

Again Sherlock stared at his phone in disbelief, mouthing the word Asperman silently to himself. What was John on?

_John, your sense of humour is becoming more surreal by the day. Anyway, if I'm Asperman than what does that make you? Extremely- Neurotypical-Man?_

_Luckily for you I am! We have the ultimate superhero -friendship._

_What?_

_Extremely- Neurotypical-Man always knows when to swoop in and offer Asperman a cup of tea to help calm his nerves…if he would like one right now while I make one for myself?_

_Your powers of ordinariness are indispensable, John._

Sherlock suddenly felt a lot happier than he had done all evening. John was right, they did have the ultimate friendship. They balanced out each other's weaknesses and added to each other strengths. He knew from reading John's blog that John was learning from him, about how to think more logically and stay focused on a task for longer. It was a secret source of pride for Sherlock. And while he would probably never say it out loud, he was learning from John who was always prepared to quietly advise him on how to interact with people.

Sherlock hoped that this exchanging of skills would continue for a long while yet.

Of course it would.


End file.
